Chapter 3
Marcus Alderbrook, forty-four years old and the managing director of the family’s maritime holdings, adjusted his silver cufflinks as he stood three paces from the head table. His rosy, aristocratic face was arranged into an expression of calm, patronizing concern.
"Godwin, we have three municipal judges and two state senators in this room," Marcus said, keeping his voice lowered to a confidential murmur. "You have your personal muscle manhandling our cousin in broad daylight. If Clara is sick, call the paramedics. We don't conduct police interrogations during an anniversary gala."
"Clara wasn't sick until she took a drink from my goblet, Marcus," Godwin replied, swirling the crystal glass slightly so the oily film caught the chandelier light. "Did you know she had a habit of checking my table settings?"
Marcus’s smile didn't falter, but his eyes narrowed. "Clara was a devoted servant. Perhaps too devoted. But accusing Vesper of attempted murder based on the ramblings of a traumatized toddler is unhinged, Godwin. You've been paranoid ever since the warehouse fire in Newark."
"Lottie saw the gold vial," Godwin said, holding the small container aloft. "Care to tell me what’s inside, Marcus?"
"How in God’s name would I know what Vesper keeps in her purse?" Marcus scoffed, turning an exasperated palm toward the watching guests. "Vesper, tell him he’s losing his mind."
Vesper looked from Marcus to Godwin, her lower lip trembling. "Marcus... he has the glass. Clara is in the back."
"Shut up, Vesper," Marcus snapped, his polished facade cracking for half a second. "Let me handle this."
"No, don't shut up, Vesper," Godwin interjected, his voice freezing the air between them. "Tell me why your lawyer looks more frightened than you do."
The double doors of the private dining room creaked open, and Dr. Sterling hurried out, wiping his hands on a clean surgical towel. He was fifty-five, a longtime family physician whose loyalty had been bought and paid for over two decades.
"Godwin," Sterling said, breathless.
"Is she breathing?" Godwin asked without turning away from Marcus.
"Barely," Sterling replied, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses with a trembling finger. "Her respiratory system is shutting down. It’s an aconite derivative. Extremely concentrated, water-soluble, odorless. If she had taken a full swallow instead of a testing sip, she would have been dead before she hit the floor."
Lottie let out a small, terrified sob and buried her face into Godwin’s hip. Godwin laid a heavy, protective hand on her head, his fingers stroking her curls.
"Can you stabilize her, Sterling?" Godwin asked.
"I gave her an emergency dose of atropine and activated charcoal from my field kit," Sterling said. "An ambulance needs to be here in eight minutes, Godwin. If her heart goes into ventricular fibrillation, I can't bring her back without a hospital crash cart."
"No ambulances," Marcus said loudly, stepping between Sterling and the door. "We don't bring sirens and police cruisers to the front gate during a private function. We have the private clinic in the west wing. Take her there."
"You want her in the west wing where your private guards have the keys, Marcus?" Godwin asked.
Marcus stepped forward, his eyes blazing. "I want to protect the family from a public scandal! Do you know what the press will do to our shipping stocks if it leaks that the Alderbrook patriarch was poisoned at his own anniversary party?"
"You aren't worried about the press, Marcus," Godwin said, his voice dropping an octave into pure, lethal certainty. "You’re worried Clara will wake up and name the man who gave Vesper that vial."
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"That is an outrageous slander!" Marcus bellowed.
"Kane," Godwin said, not shouting. "Lock every exterior door. Disarm Marcus’s drivers at the gate. If anyone reaches for a weapon or a phone, shoot them where they stand."
